Paradise Wherever You Are
by Sameuspegasus
Summary: When it's all over, they go to New Zealand. There are lambs, rugby, and a slight case. Contains season 7 spoilers and speculation for end of season 7. Written for worldwide spn.


**Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine. No offense or disrespect is intended by the liberal interpretation of the concept of Tapu. All song lyrics are the property of the respective artist.**

"_Somewhere deep inside, something's got a hold on you_

_ And it's pushing me aside, see it stretch on forever_

_ And I know I'm right, for the first time in my life_

_ That's why I tell you, you better be home soon."_

Crowded House - _Better Be Home Soon_

Something was wrong with Dean. Really wrong. Sam had told himself that it was just stress, all the death and world-saving getting to him. That when the final battle was over and they won, Sam would get his brother back. The real one, with the quick smile and bad jokes and the pathological need to save people. But it wasn't happening. Sam was starting to think his brother was finally permanently broken.

As for Sam? Well, Lucy was gone now more than he was there. Sam was dealing with it. Really, the most worrying thing was that sometimes he missed him.

They'd got Cas back. That was good. He'd come to just after Sam finished the ritual to finish off the leviathans. Sam had suddenly realised he'd missed Cas a lot more than he thought and had wrapped him in an enormous bear hug. Cas had briefly hugged him back and then just stood there awkwardly waiting for Sam to let go, staring across the room at where Dean was continuing to beat the crap out of the very dead corpse of the Dick Roman. When Cas had finally crossed the room and spoken to Dean, Dean hadn't taken it as well as Sam had expected.

It had taken Dean three days to admit that Cas was really there. Funny, really. Sam was meant to be the one with the problems identifying reality. When he finally did admit it, Sam was out running. When he got back, Cas had a black eye and Dean was crying. Sam did the cowardly thing and left again. The last thing he heard was Dean repeating, over and over again: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Dean didn't get out of bed for two days after that. He didn't speak. Sam tried to look after him, but Cas kept pushing in front of him. He was trying so hard to make things up to Dean it was almost pathetic.

Now, Dean was out of bed, but so quiet and unsmiling it was like he wasn't even Dean anymore. Sam's chest ached every time he looked at the empty shell of his brother. It was like now he'd got his revenge he had nothing holding him together. So Sam put his foot down. They were going on vacation. Possibly forever. Somewhere a really, really long way away.

Sam put the idea forward over breakfast, in the disused motel they were squatting in (it had beds, which was more than could be said for most of the places they'd stayed recently). Well, he was eating breakfast. Dean was never hungry these days, and Cas didn't like to eat because it reminded him he was human now, which reminded him of everything he'd done. Sam couldn't be bothered arguing.

"We're going on vacation," he informed them, "to another country." It was also better to phrase things as statements rather than questions. It reduced the chances of argument. But then, Dean didn't argue much anymore. It was like he'd used up all of his energy on his suicide mission to destroy the leviathans, and now he just let Sam and Cas boss him around.

"Where?" asked Cas.

"Where do you want to go, Dean?" Sam asked. _Please have an opinion. Please want something._

Dean spoke for the first time in thirty-three hours and fourteen minutes (Sam was keeping a mental record). He had to clear his throat, and it came out gritty and tired. "Anywhere they speak English," he said.

"It is not an issue Dean," Cas said, sounding more Cas-like (read as 'puzzled and slightly annoyed') than he had for days, "I understand every language ever spoken in the heavens or on earth."

Then Dean did something that made Sam's heart lift. He looked Cas in the eye. "Cas," he said, "You might be able to speak every language ever, but you have the social skills of an autistic Martian. We're going somewhere they speak English."

That was when Sam knew for sure that his brother was still in there, buried way underneath the weight life had shovelled on him. He told himself he didn't care that the first sign of it had come out for Cas instead of him.

They chose their destination with the aid of a world map, a drawing pin and a blindfold. The pin jabbed into a tiny set of islands just below Australia.

Sam waited for the Lord of the Rings reference that should blurt out of his brother. It didn't come.

"Okay," Sam said. "I'll find somewhere for us to stay." No driving around, at least for a couple of months. That was one of Sam's rules. One he hadn't told Dean about yet.

He spent the next hour and a half looking up New Zealand on the internet and came to the conclusion that it was ideal. As far as he could tell, there was absolutely nothing dangerous there at all, with the exception of a few natural disasters, which although tragic, at least appeared to be unrelated to apocalypses of any kind. There were no snakes, no bears, no dangerous wild animals at all. The army was small and the air force had no planes. A few headlines bearing news of devastation, heartbreak and tragedy, and one particularly alarming one announcing '_We're Doomed!'_ worried him briefly, before he clicked the links and discovered they were all about some guy called Dan Carter injuring his groin. Apparently, rugby's a really big deal there.

In the end, Sam picked a small community on the west coast of the North Island. It was only a couple of hours away from Auckland, which was the biggest city in the country, and the one they were flying into. People were desperate to rent their houses out for the winter to fill in the gap between tourist seasons, so places were going cheap for short-term contracts. A quick series of emails, and everything was set. Sam booked plane tickets for the next week. They were going to New Zealand.

XXXXXXXX

_"I don't know if I can touch you or if you're out of reach._

_ I don't if I can see you, even if I get to leave._

_ And I don't know if I'm on fire, or if you're made of sparks_

_ I don't know if I'm that secret that you never want to part with…"_

Midnight Youth – _Learning to Fall_

Dean unfolded himself from the tiny rental car and stretched, looking at their home for the next three months. The flight hadn't been as bad as he'd expected. Somehow, after everything, plummeting to his death in a flaming ball of wreckage didn't seem like such a bad way to go anymore. Still, he was glad it was over. Thirteen hours is a long time to spend crammed into a plane seat if you're Winchester-sized. Especially if you have chronic insomnia, nightmares on those rare occasions when you do sleep, and a totally rational fear that your brother or your friend will die horribly if you let them out of sight for more than a minute. He'd spent five minutes staving off a panic attack when Sam had disappeared to use the tiny bathroom even though he'd _known_ it wasn't possible for the rear end of the plane to spontaneously fall off with Sam in it. So anyway, he was glad to be on the ground again.

The drive from the Auckland airport to their new home had taken a little over two hours. Dean probably could have done it in an hour and a half, but he'd let Sam drive. Somehow, he just couldn't get up the enthusiasm for driving he used to have. Without his baby, it was like every hour spent fighting unfamiliar steering and listening to pathetic engine noises ripped open the ragged hole in his gut a little more and let the last dregs of his old self get sucked out. So he'd let Sam worry about keeping left and getting the windscreen wipers and the indicators mixed up, while he sat in the front seat and tried to appreciate the change of scenery.

He wasn't stupid. He knew this whole trip was for his benefit. He just wished he could remember how to enjoy himself.

The house they were staying in was described on the website as a 'bach'. The owner rented it out as a holiday home during the summer, when thousands of tourists poured into the area from all over the world to surf and swim at the beaches. Dean assumed that it was going so cheap because no-one came here in the winter. They'd driven down the main street on the way to the house and Dean had seen a total of three people and a German shepherd. It was mid-afternoon.

They couldn't see the sea from the house; even in winter, sea views were out of their price range. But Dean could hear waves roaring on the bar at the harbour mouth, just out of sight over the hill. Salt spray kicked up by the south-westerly coated the wooden sidings of the house and covered the glass of the windows in a thin white shell. Dean found all the salt in the air somewhat reassuring.

"Come pick your room," Sam poked his head out of the door. Dean followed obediently.

The wallpaper had sprays of flowers on it and was starting to peel away from the walls. Fine black sand filled the crevices between the floorboards. All the furniture was twenty years old and well broken in. Dean checked out each of the three bedrooms in turn. He paused at the one with the bunks, then steeled himself and walked past, dumping his stuff on the single bed in what had obviously been a child's room once. He breathed slowly, fighting off the tight feeling in his chest at the idea of individual rooms. He was thirty-three, for god's sake. He shouldn't be nervous about sleeping in his own room.

In the end Sam got the parents' room, with the double bed because he was a giant. Cas got the bunk beds but came and hovered in Dean's room.

"Are you sure you want this one?" Cas asked. Dean looked at him. "I could… I mean we… never mind."

Dean sighed. He'd kind of like to take Cas up on the offer. He sleeps better with Cas there. But while Cas might not think it's weird for two grown up dudes to sleep in bunk beds in the same room, Dean knows better.

They explored the town the next day, and Dean did his best to pretend he wasn't a black hole. He mostly went because Sam was looking at him so expectantly, like a kid who'd learned something new at baseball practice and wanted you to be impressed (he fought off thoughts of Ben, and the black hole opened up a little).

A line of palm trees stood on islands down the centre of the single street of shops that sloped downhill, ending in a triangle of grass and a wooden jetty jutting out into the water. A few thousand houses decorated the hills, but half of them were empty, collecting dust and sand until their owners came for three weeks holiday in summer.

Sam parted from Dean and Cas at the tiny supermarket (Dean wasn't really up for talking to people much these days and supermarkets made him claustrophobic with their narrow aisles). Dean and Cas turned left at the grassy triangle and followed the boardwalk along a little way. It was shaded by large, twisting trees with thick green leaves ("_Metrosideros excelsa_," Cas told him, "The majority of New Zealand's plants do not lose their leaves in winter." Because Cas knows stuff like that. There was probably something profound in there somewhere, but Dean wasn't good at identifying it.) They turned right onto a white footbridge that arched across a narrow inlet to a peninsula with a black-sand beach and a playground with where a sole mother pushed her daughter on a swing.

Cas stopped suddenly at the apex of the bridge, staring down at the water. Dean took a step back so he wasn't actually touching Cas and followed his gaze. A school of tiny fish were passing underneath them, flashing silver as they darted about. There were thousands of them, moving as one out to sea.

"What, never seen fish before?" Dean asked. It was kind of cool, he guessed, with that strange detachment he felt so often now, when the old him would have experienced joy or excitement. Not worthy of that level of wonder, though, he thought, taking in the expression on Cas's face.

Cas looked up into Dean's eyes with that disconcerting directness that Dean had missed so much. A slight frown crossed his face, part confusion, part disapproval and part astonishment at Dean's idiocy. Oh-so-familiar. "Of course I have seen fish before," he said, "I just like the way they reflect the light."

There was probably something profound in there, too, but Dean couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was.

Dean watched Cas look down at the fish. The sunlight felt warm on his face for the first time in forever.

That night, Sam insisted on making dinner. Dean pretended to read a book he'd found on the rickety wooden shelf in the living room, left behind by some previous occupant, and watched to make sure Sam didn't set himself on fire. Cas sat in the ragged armchair and didn't even attempt to disguise the fact that he was watching Dean.

Dean ate the food even though he wasn't hungry. Sam had put so much effort into it. He couldn't taste it, but that was probably a good thing. Dean had always been the one who did the cooking.

The nightmares came again that night. He would wake up sweaty, with is heart beating double time and look around his empty room for Sam and Cas, panicking when he couldn't see them. It turned into a routine. Cas explodes into black goo. Dean wakes up and can't breathe. Goes to check Cas is alive (he is). Goes back to bed. Lies awake. Reaches for the whisky that isn't there (Sam poured it all down the drain months ago). Falls back to sleep. Sam is ripped apart. Dean wakes up. Goes to check on Sam. Repeat.

"Dean, go away," Sam growled at him as Dean checked his pulse. It was strange. Sam only acted naturally when he was half asleep now.

Dean went outside, making a quick detour to poke his head around Cas's door. The backyard had a lemon tree and a lawn that needed mowing and a patch of weeds that might have been a vegetable garden once. A tiny shed listed to the side in the far left corner, white paint peeling. He took a deep breath, letting the salty air reassure him. He really needed a drink, but the sun was barely up. The liquor store would be closed. He sat in the grass, leaning back against the rickety wooden fence. It wobbled. He rubbed a hand over his face.

"Hullo," said a voice.

Dean jumped. He was getting sloppy. But he was just so tired. He glanced around. A small girl was poking her head through a gap in the fence a few yards away. Her wild black curls floated in the slight wind as she gazed curiously at him, brown eyes wide. She kind of reminded him of Cas when he'd first been around, only cuter and less scary.

"Should you be out here by yourself?" He asked.

"You didn't used to live here," she accused him.

"I just moved in," he told her, standing up to peer over the fence for a parent.

"You talk funny," she said, "Have you seen Rutchie?"

"Who's Rutchie? Is he missing? What does he look like?" Dean cursed inwardly. Nothing bad was supposed to happen on this vacation. Kids going missing was one of the worst things about the world. And the world had a crapload of bad stuff.

"He escaped. He's white and fluffy."

Ok, so maybe it wasn't a kid. But kittens shouldn't go missing either.

"He needs his breakfast," the little girl explained further, the beginnings of distress in her voice.

"I'll help you find him," Dean found himself offering. Huh. He really thought he'd stopped caring about anything other than his immediate family. "How about you get your parents to help?"

But then a quiet _baa_ sounded behind him. The little girl squeezed through the fence and dashed over to where Cas stood, holding a small, fluffy white lamb at arm's length.

Cas placed the lamb carefully on the ground in front of him. "You should remember to shut the door, Dean. You never know what you're letting in."

"Bad boy, Rutchie. Don't run away." The little girl hugged her lamb.

Dean had to admit that it was really cute. Something warm floated into the hole in his gut.

"Annie?" A voice called from over the fence.

"Daddy!" Annie cried back. "I found Rutchie."

A man's head and shoulders appeared above the fence. He looked a few years older than Dean, with light brown skin and the same black curls as his daughter. "Annie, next time he runs away, come get me, okay," he said to his daughter. Dean thought he sounded remarkably calm. If it had been his daughter that disappeared, well, he didn't even want to think about it. The guy turned to Dean. "Air gun," he said cheerfully, "Just moved in?"

Dean didn't see what air guns had to do with anything. "Uh, hi," he said, "Nice lamb." Apparently he'd forgotten how to have a conversation that didn't involve threatening someone or crying.

"He's named after Rutchie McCaw," Annie informed him, "Want to feed him?"

Dean nodded dumbly. This whole morning was turning out completely surreal. He didn't tell her he had no idea who Rutchie McCaw was.

Two minutes later he and Cas were standing in the next door neighbours garden, feeding lambs warm milk from coke bottles with bright red teats screwed on instead of lids, surrounded by Annie, her father (his name was Tom), his wife Jen, and approximately seventy-five other children under the age of eight, all of whom were giving advice at once. The number of people was a little overwhelming, but he was handling it. He'd never fed a lamb before, and he had to admit it was pretty cool. Rutchie didn't even come up to his knees, so he had to crouch so the lamb could reach. Tilt the bottle just enough that the milk would flow out, but not so much it would come out too fast. Rutchie was surprisingly strong, nearly pulling the bottle out of Dean's hand in his eagerness to get the milk. His tail wagged crazily as the milk ran out and he butted at Dean's leg, wanting more. Dean lifted the empty bottle out of reach. Sucking on air was bad for lambs. He held him by the collar, patting his tight curls of wool as Tom wiped the milk foam from around the lamb's mouth with a damp cloth.

Dean glanced across at Cas, who was just finishing feeding Piri (Piree, with a rolled r… Dean didn't have a chance of saying it correctly), an even smaller lamb with black legs and a black face. Cas patted it awkwardly and looked over at Dean. That little half-smile he sometimes got crept across his face. Dean touched a hand to his own face and realised he was smiling too.

Huh. If he'd known all it took to make things a bit better was some baby sheep he would have found some sooner. Maybe he should have woken up Sam… but no, Sam needed his sleep. And freaked out as Dean was by it, he knew Sam didn't need to feed lambs nearly as much as Dean and Cas did.

All the kids were shooed inside to get ready for school then, and Dean and Cas headed home to get out of the way. Sam was up and puttering around the kitchen, rubberising some eggs. He scowled at them as they came in.

"Who spilt water on the floor in the hallway? I stepped in it in my bare feet."

Cas looked guilty for a second. "That wasn't water, Sam. Rutchie could not contain his bladder."

Sam's face took on an expression of disgusted outrage Dean hadn't seen for years.

Dean laughed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"_If things get appallingly bad_

_ And we're all under constant attack_

_ Just remember we want to see good clean ball_

_ And for god's sake feed your backs."_

Fred Dagg – _We Don't Know How Lucky We Are_

It didn't all get better, just like that. Of course not. That's not how life works. Dean was still exhausted. The nightmares still came, night after night. Tension knotted up his back, and he had trouble breathing when Sam or Cas was out of sight for more than a couple of minutes. It rained a lot. Dean went for enforced daily walks on the beach ("I have never made a sandcastle," Cas said, and Dean had to show him how.) and read twelve trashy romance novels left behind by previous occupants, and didn't watch the news. He showed Sam how to make scrambled eggs that weren't chewy, but still didn't go to the supermarket with him. Too many people, and he probably couldn't walk past the booze.

Sam joined the library and read books about the history of New Zealand and started trying to cook traditional Kiwi dishes. Dean politely asked him to stop after being served something flat and eggy that Sam called a 'pavlova' (Dean was pretty sure Sam was doing it wrong – he'd seen the picture in the magazine Sam had found the recipe in and it was about three times as high as Sam's and looked a bit like a giant meringue with marshmallow insides).

Cas sat beside Dean and stared at him. Dean ignored the heavy weight of guilt that lowered onto him every time he looked up at those blue eyes. They were probably going to have to talk about it all sometime, but last time they had tried to talk Dean had punched Cas and then totally lost any hold he had on his emotions, so the talk wasn't happening anytime soon. Not when things were finally starting to get a little better. So he just let Cas stare at him. At least then he knew where Cas was.

Dean and Cas started feeding the lambs every lunchtime, when Tom and Jen were at work and the kids were at school. Sometimes, Tom or Jen would come home for lunch and they'd talk. They were still the only people in town that Dean had spoken to. It seemed amazing to him that once he'd been able to flirt and chat away about nothing to anyone he met, and now he just never knew what to say.

By an unfortunate chance, one of the few days that Sam joined in the lamb-feeding expedition was one of those days that Tom came home for lunch. They got talking while Dean and Cas were feeding the lambs. Sam was a much better conversationalist than Dean these days.

Dean just caught the last few words as he was re-attaching Rutchie to his rope. "Rugby muster's on Saturday if you guys are interested," Tom was saying, "We're short a few players for the social team. It doesn't matter if you've never played before."

Before Dean could make an excuse, Sam jumped in. "Sounds great, we'll be there."

"We've got spare uniforms, but you'll probably have to buy boots if you want ones that fit. Muster's at the clubrooms of the rugby ground." Tom smiled at them.

Cas looked at Tom. "What's rugby?"

The look on Tom's face was a mixture of amusement and absolute horror. Dean was kind of glad Cas had asked. He knew it was a sport, but he had to admit he was a bit hazy on the details.

Tom's description of rugby was nearly fifteen minutes long, beginning with the 1905 Invincibles tour and the naming of the New Zealand team 'the All Blacks' after a typo in an American newspaper, through a lengthy comparison with what he called American football (for pussies, apparently), and finishing with a description of the one-point win over France to seal the most recent world cup for New Zealand. Dean got a bit lost after the first few minutes, picking up the thread again when Tom invited them to watch the All Blacks game with his family on Friday night.

Sam immediately said yes again. Dean was starting to suspect him of subtly trying to re-inject Dean into society.

"It's Wednesday," said Cas, for Dean's benefit.

Tom looked at him strangely. "Uh, yes."

Two days later, Dean, Sam and Cas headed next door at precisely 7:25PM, arriving just in time to be shushed for the national anthem and the haka (which was a Maori war dance performed by the All Blacks before every game).Tom shoved his two eldest children off the sofa to make room for the visitors, while Jen handed around chips and delicious homemade onion dip. The whistle blew and a guy with perfect hair and a large number 10 emblazoned on his back kicked off, sending the ball high up and into the territory of the Australian team. By ten minutes in, Dean had figured out two things: the commentator really wanted to have Daniel Carter's babies (he was the number 10) and the offside rule was really confusing. At fifteen minutes, he'd deduced that Rutchie the lamb was actually called Richie, and he was named after the captain. By twenty minutes in, he'd realised that rugby was awesome. It was fast and furious, the tackles were hard and the running was fluid. He was cheering just as loudly as everyone else when the guy in the number 14 jersey ("Right wing," explained Tom) collected a kick from his teammate and dodged four men in yellow uniforms to dive over the try line and ground the ball. By the time the game was over (ninety minutes, including the ten minute halftime) Dean was starting to look forward to having a go.

When Saturday arrived, Dean was starting to have doubts again, especially when they got to the rugby ground and he saw the sheer number of people there. It was quite amazing that a town of three thousand people could support an A team, a B team, a social team, a veterans team (for old people, not soldiers), a women's team and age group teams at every year level. The people weren't there to watch, either. According to Tom, nobody watched club rugby. Everyone was there to play.

It felt like everyone was looking at them. Maybe it was because they were new; maybe it was that their legs were glowing bright white beneath the ridiculously tiny black shorts that didn't even reach halfway to their knees. Come to think of it, it might even have been because they'd seen him tying Cas's shoelaces in the changing shed (Cas tended to forget about things like shoelaces, and just leave them trailing, partially knotted). Or maybe Dean was imagining it. There was no denying he'd been becoming progressively crazier for a long time. He edged slightly behind Sam.

The tryouts turned out to be quite fun, and Dean hadn't said that about much recently. You didn't actually have to be able to play rugby to be in the social team. Mostly you just had to be able to pass and catch and tackle people, all of which Dean had a lot of experience in (he turned out to be really good at defence – the trick was to tackle someone as though you were protecting them from a filing cabinet thrown across the room by a poltergeist, rather than as though they were a demon you had to kill). Sam got made a forward, because forwards were the ones that went around bashing into each other, and Sam was gigantic. Dean worried about his head. Who knew what a knock to the head would do to Sam? Sam growled at him and did exactly what he wanted anyway. Strangely, it made Dean feel a little better that he was quitting the mollycoddling thing and going back to his old, impatient self. Dean was a centre. From what he could gather, that meant he wore a shirt with the number 13 on it and tackled anyone who ran toward him with the ball. If he got the ball, he had to dodge a couple of opposition players and pass the ball to a winger, who ran really fast down the side of the field and scored. Cas was a fullback, which meant he stood at the back and collected the ball if it went over everyone else's head, and tackled any opposition who got past everyone else.

By the end of the 'tryouts', which weren't really tryouts because there weren't quite enough people for the social team, and all the good people were in the A team or the B team, so everybody made it, Dean was panting heavily, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd forgotten that a racing heart could feel good. Holy crap, he was unfit. Dusk was falling. He looked across at Cas, who was walking up from the end of the field, his hair sticking up wildly, a streak of mud on his face, more down his bare legs. Cas looked hilarious in shorts. Dean grinned.

Sam appeared beside him, flushed and muddy, but smiling. "Wanna stay for a while?"

Dean waited his turn for the showers, then went, fresh and clean, into the clubrooms. Sam was at the bar, talking to the bartender (Dean recognised him from practice, he'd been wearing number 3), who was handing out cold cans of beer to people. By God there were a lot of people. He decided against wading through and pressed himself against the wall to wait for Sam to come over to him.

Sam did come back eventually, handing him a can of coke ("Thanks Sammy," he said sarcastically in his head, "This is way better than a beer.") "Took your time," he said out loud.

"Some people actually like to talk, Dean," Sam said.

"You don't have to stay here, Sammy. Go. Talk to people." Dean waved him away. Sam looked back at him, but he went. Dean pushed himself further back into the wall to avoid being walked into by a truly enormous Samoan who was laughing at something his friend had said and not looking where he was going.

"Sorry mate," the guy boomed cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder with a massive hand. Dean nodded and forced a smile.

Dean watched Sam talking to one of the guys on the team. He looked more animated than he had in weeks. It made Dean a little warmer.

"Hello Dean," Cas said, making him jump slightly.

"How was your shower?" Dean asked.

"Cold," said Cas. Cas always took forever in the shower. His hair was sticking up, but he was clean and pink. His shoelaces were undone. So was his coat. Dean refrained from doing up the buttons.

The clubrooms were really hot. Really loud. Dean was sure there wasn't enough air for that many people. He really wanted a beer. "We should go," he said. "Let's find Sam."

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for pushing through the mass of bodies. Cas grabbed his hand, pulling him forward. Dean shook him off. "Dude," he hissed, "I am not holding your hand."

Cas looked at him confusedly. "But it reassures you."

"Shut up, I'm fine." Dean followed behind him, letting his friend clear the path to Sam. He ignored the curious looks. Most of them probably already thought he and Cas were together, after the shoe-tying incident.

"We're leaving," Dean announced, when they reached Sam.

"Okay," Sam said, turning back to the guy who was describing in detail the penalty kick by the fourth-best first-five-eighth in the country that had won the world cup for New Zealand.

Dean waited.

"I'll see you guys later," Sam said.

"You're coming too," Dean told him, glancing at the dark sky outside.

"I'll be home in a couple of hours, Dean," Sam said with finality.

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. Sam was a grown up. He didn't need Dean to get him home safely. People were looking. And Sam had that face on. _Don't make a scene, Dean._ The one with the lips pressed hard together.

Dean allowed Cas to drag him away by the wrist. "He'll be fine, Dean," Cas said.

Nothing got them on the way home.

For dinner, he showed Cas how to use the toaster. They used up a whole loaf of bread, and only ate one piece each.

Sam got home two and a half hours later. "See Dean," he said, "Nothing happened."

"What were you _doing _all that time?" Dean asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, because he knew he shouldn't be annoyed at Sam.

"There's a little patch of native bush right by the rugby grounds. Totally untouched. It's beautiful," Sam told him. Dean tuned out as Sam went on and on about ferns with silver undersides, and how they'd seen an owl, then came back just in time for: "Seriously, Dean, the worst thing that happened was somebody pissing on a tree."

Dean gave up and slept on the top bunk in Cas's room that night. It wobbled and his feet hung over the end, but he slept better than he had for ages.

XXXXXXXXXXX

_"You have sacrificed much to be here_

_ 'There but for grace…' as I offer my hand_

_ Welcome home, I bid you welcome, I bid you welcome_

_Welcome home, from the bottom of my heart…"_

Dave Dobbyn – _Welcome Home_

Dean was woken in the morning by the artificial camera noise of Sam's cell phone. He rolled over, catching himself on the edge of the bunk before he fell. He glared at Sam, who was grinning delightedly. Dean grumbled out of tradition, but it was nice to see his brother smile, and anyway, he actually felt rested. He was thinking about sleeping there every night.

Sam's smile disappeared as they went into the kitchen. "Dean," he said disapprovingly, taking in the sight of the counter, "What happened to the toaster?" Apparently, the time limit on Sam's period of looking after Dean by obsessively trying to make him happy had run out. That was okay though. To tell the truth it had kind of been creeping Dean out.

"I was teaching Cas to make toast." Dean pulled a chipped glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water.

"And that involved taking the toaster apart?"

"Relax, Samantha, I'll fix it," Dean growled, leaning against the counter and sipping his water. He watched his brother hide a smile behind the fridge door and realised they had just had a totally normal conversation, like actual brothers. He picked up one of the leftover pieces of toast from last night and ate it dry, laughing slightly at the expression on Sam's face (number 76: _I can't believe you're going to eat that_).

An hour later, Sam was out running and Dean was fixing the toaster. Cas was out of the shower and 'helping' him put it back together. It was proving more difficult than taking it apart. "We should investigate the shed today," he said. At the very least, there was probably a screwdriver in there, which would be very helpful right now.

Sam galloped in, sweaty and breathing hard, as Dean and Cas were hauling a very old lawnmower out of the shed. Dean let out his usual sigh of relief, but realised he hadn't been as worried as usual. Probably it was a combination of nothing happening to Sam last night and the distraction of the toaster and the lawnmower.

"Dude, you better start going running. Keith Nichol broke his leg. That means you're definitely playing the whole game on Saturday."

"Who's Keith?" Dean asked, checking the lawnmower tank for gas. It was empty.

"Big guy, brown hair. He was the guy showing you what to do. He tripped over his cat last night, got a nasty bump on his head, too."

"Huh. Sucks to be him," Dean said, removing the spark plugs from the mower motor. "Feel like going to the gas station?"

The next day, when the mower was back together with a few improvements and Dean was pulling the ripcord to start it, Sam arrived home from his trip to the library with four books about lawnmowers, some sissy book about the wife of a time-traveller which Dean definitely wasn't going to read when Sam wasn't looking, and the news that James McDonald had speared his foot while flounder-spearing and wouldn't be able to play on Saturday.

The day after, while Dean was showing Cas how the oven worked, Sam returned from the supermarket with far too many vegetables and the information that Keith with the broken leg now also had a broken wrist and was looking to get rid of his cat.

At rugby practice on Wednesday, everyone got drenched by freezing rain, and they were four players short, because two of the forwards had been in a car accident the day before, and had a broken rib and a concussion respectively.

Dean was starting to get a bad feeling.

When Tom casually mentioned the next day that he couldn't hang around during his lunch break because he had to fix the flickering lights in several houses (he was an electrician, Dean remembered), the heavy, sinking feeling worsened.

"Are there flickering lights at Keith's place?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Tom looked surprised. "Yeah, how did you know?"

Dean mumbled something about Keith seeming to be having a run of bad luck, and nearly walked into the fence in his hurry to leave. _Shit. There was no escape._

He made Cas go to the library with him. There was free wireless there that Sam had been using to find recipes. They left a note for Sam to find when he came back from his run. No point in worrying Sam. Sam had made it clear that the trip to New Zealand was for Dean's benefit, but he was clearly enjoying the peace and quiet. Dean hadn't seen him glaring at nothing for days. No, he and Cas would make sure it was nothing, and then no more hunting. Ever.

The library was very small, really more like a large cupboard filled with books. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but it was smaller than the living room in the house they were renting. There was an issues desk at one end and a desk for people with laptops to use at the other. In between were a low table with children's puzzles on it and several sets of shelves filled with books. Dean sat at the desk and opened the laptop, while Cas peered at the local history section. The librarian read a book and pretended not to be watching them.

The fire siren went off as Dean was pulling up an article about a recent suicide in the area that could have resulted in a vengeful spirit. He felt his heart clench and slammed the laptop shut a little too hard. What was the point in saving the world all the time if it didn't fix anything? He jerked his head towards the door and Cas closed the book he was reading, following him to the door.

The alarm went off as they tried to leave, barely audible over the wailing of the fire siren. Dean realised Cas was still holding a pile of books. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry that Cas didn't know about getting books out of libraries.

"I found something," said Cas, as they headed home with photocopies of important pages.

"Yeah?" Dean hadn't found anything. The last recorded murder in the town had been a wife-beating forty-five years ago, and the only other suspicious deaths had been a few suicides over the years. None of the victims had any connection to Keith Nichol or any of the other people who had had accidents. Anyway, vengeful spirits didn't usually announce themselves with a series of non-lethal accidents. This was more like a minor curse. But minor curses always escalated.

"Tapu," Cas said.

"What-poo?"

"Tapu. An object, person, or place is Tapu if they are sacred for some reason. It is forbidden to disturb or disrespect the Tapu object, and if Tapu is not adhered to, there are unfortunate consequences for the one who broke the rules."

"Such as?" Dean knew what was coming.

"The one who broke Tapu loses the protection of the Gods, and will be plagued by extreme bad luck, often followed by demonic possession, attack by the supernatural, or death."

"But if Keith is the one who broke this Tapu, then why are the others having accidents?"

"It can spread through family groups, areas of land, or tribes."

"Or teams?"

"It seems likely."

"And how do we fix this? Salt and burn?"

"We must find the object and say a prayer to the Maori Gods over it."

"Oh. Good thing you speak every language ever spoken in the heavens or on earth, then."

They walked past a moving truck pulled up to a large house. Two men were carting a new-looking flat-screen television to the truck. A large red sticker was slapped to the side of it. _REPOSSESSED._ A man in his late thirties that Dean vaguely recognised from rugby practice was following them, protesting: "But I paid for this! All of it! Something's gone wrong at the bank!"

It was spreading. They needed to find the object before the bad luck hit them (maybe it already had).

Dean's good humour of a few days ago was rapidly departing.

It got worse when they arrived home and found Sam at the kitchen table with a pile of books. So much for protecting Sam from this.

Sam covered the books guiltily when Dean and Cas walked in, but not before Dean caught a glance of his notes. Sam had come to pretty much the same conclusion as them. Well, Cas, if he was being honest.

"I see we have come to the same conclusion," said Cas, breaking the awkward silence.

"That there's a case here?" Sam moved his arms off his research. "I'm sorry, man," he said to Dean, with big, apologetic eyes.

"What have you got?" Dean asked, sitting down across from him.

"Well, there's a state called 'Tapu'…" Sam began.

"Yeah, we got that."

"Well, I think it has to do with the bush behind the rugby grounds. I was thinking about it, and all the people who've had accidents so far were with me when we went walking in the bush after the rugby muster. But I can't find any reason the area would be sacred."

Dean pulled Cas's photocopied pages over to him, scanning them quickly. "So things are usually Tapu if they provide some kind of valuable natural resource, or if someone died there, right? Especially if it was someone of high status in a Maori tribe? So maybe just by walking through, you guys disrespected it."

Sam shook his head. "They tore down half of that forest fifty years ago to build the rugby grounds. If destroying the forest was going to anger the Gods enough to withdraw their protection, it would have happened then. Trust me, I read up on it." He slipped a photocopied newspaper clipping across to Dean. It described the blessing of the ground before building started on the clubrooms, and stated that the building had gone up quickly and unusually smoothly.

They took a break just after five, so Sam could make dinner. Dean wasn't hungry, but he was going to eat anyway, to make Sam's day a little better. He went outside, to catch Tom on his way home from work.

Tom looked less calm than usual and smelled strongly of smoke. "Keith Nichol's house burnt down," he told Dean, "They don't know why yet."

"Is he okay?" Dean didn't hold out much hope. It seemed they never got there in time, now.

"He breathed some smoke in, but I got him out. His cat's missing though."

Dean tried really hard to focus on the live person instead of the dead cat.

It wasn't until the middle of the night as he was lying awake in the top bunk that the thought occurred to him. _"Seriously, Dean, the worst thing that happened was somebody pissing on a tree,"_ Sam's voice said in his head. Dean sat up. He'd bet any money you like that the person who pissed on that tree was Keith Nichol.

Dean got up before dawn the next day. He was poring through one of Sam's local history books, writing occasional notes when his brother and Cas came in.

"Did you sleep, Dean?" Sam asked with concern in his voice.

"Yes," Dean lied, pushing the book toward his brother. "Look." He pointed to a passage detailing the discovery of the remains of Maori food stores near the shoreline. They dated back several hundred years and appeared to have been abandoned while nearly full, a highly unusual occurrence.

"So there were Maori here a few hundred years ago?" Sam prompted him to continue.

"There are still Maori here," Cas said, carefully placing a plate with two pieces of toast on it in front of Dean. He'd even spread it with peanut butter, and was looking anxiously at Dean, so he ate it despite his roiling stomach. Cas looked pleased. "Two thirds of the rugby team is Maori."

"Yeah, there were Maori here, but they left in a hurry, and there's no written history at all, and no real oral history of the area, so I'm thinking maybe something made them leave."

"It's possible that their chief died or was killed in battle, and they were forced from the area. The ground on which a person of high status dies becomes Tapu," Cas finished, not taking his eyes off Dean.

"So you think he died in that forest and someone stepped on the ground where he was buried?" Sam took a bite of cereal.

"Well, specifically, I'm thinking he's buried under the tree Keith pissed on," Dean said.

There were clearly gaps in the theory – how likely was it that a grave site in a patch of forest so near a town had been completely undisturbed for hundreds of years? – but it was the best they could muster. There was no lore suggesting that Tapu couldn't be broken more than once, though, so maybe it hadn't always been undisturbed. They made a plan to go in and perform the blessing that night. It seemed to be a simple matter of reciting a prayer (it was supposed to be said by a Maori priest, but they didn't think a Maori priest would respond well to some random Americans rocking up and telling them what to do) over the sacred object or area, as well as the person who broke the Tapu. They decided to do the tree first, and go visit Keith in the hospital an hour away the next day.

They were going to have to do things a little differently than at home. The loss of protection from the supernatural meant they were absolutely guaranteed to encounter a vengeful spirit, but they had none of their usual tools.

"We need to fix up some salt guns," Dean suggested.

"Where are we gonna get guns from, Dean? This is New Zealand; even the police don't carry guns. I read an article about the police in Hamilton chasing someone. They had to fly in 'the taser' from Auckland."

"Rob a farmer?"

"We don't have a car, Dean. Anyway, we have nothing to adapt them with."

"There's an old iron anchor and chain in the shed. Rusty as… something really rusty, and really friggin' heavy, but we can use it."

"They don't have road salt at the store, because it doesn't get cold enough for snow here, but we can probably buy a couple of kilograms of table salt if we buy out the whole store," Sam said.

Damn, that would barely make a line, let alone a circle.

Cas spoke up. "There is a large body of salty water immediately over the hill." Sometimes Cas liked to remind Dean and Sam that they were idiots.

That night they entered the patch of bush behind the rugby grounds a little before midnight. A cold drizzle was slowly soaking through Dean's layers. He leaned slightly forward to accommodate the weight of the tank of salt water in the weed-spraying backpack he was wearing, and aimed his flashlight into the trees. The light bounced off the rain, making everything blurred and surreal. Under the trees, the darkness beyond the beams of the flashlights was total, the canopy shutting out the faint light of the cloud-dulled moon. A wet fern frond dragged against Dean's neck and he shuddered.

"Are you sure you can find the tree again?" Dean asked breathlessly (Sam was right, he needed to go running), as they clambered up a steep bank.

"It's not far now," Sam grabbed a branch to hold himself upright as his foot slipped in the wet leaf litter. The heavy iron chain he was carrying was weighing him down.

Something rustled to their left. Dean tensed. A small owl flew directly over his head.

"That's a Morepork," said Sam, "They're native to New Zealand and have a distinctive call."

Sam's torch flickered. Dean's heart gave a jump. They took another few steps.

"That's it," Sam whispered, aiming the beam of his flashlight down a slope. The tree was large, with rough bark and drooping, narrow leaves that were almost like needles.

"Cas, you're up," Dean whispered. Cas was armed with a tank of water the same as Dean's, and an fluent Maori (turns out being a gazillion years old is useful), although he wasn't totally sure the Maori gods would want to be appeased by someone who until recently, had been solidly in the employment of a God who had very nearly wiped them out with the arrival of Europeans in the country.

Cas strode down the bank, followed closely by Dean and Sam.

Sam's torch flickered once more, and went out. Dean's followed soon after, not even bothering to flicker before it died. Cas's went a step further and flew out of his hand, thudding heavily against a tree and falling, extinguished, to the ground. Suddenly, Dean couldn't see his brother or Cas anymore. A sudden chill froze the rain on his face. The hairs on his arms stood on end. His heart raced. He pumped the lever on his backpack, raising the pressure in preparation to send a jet of salty water directly into the heart of the apparition that was about to appear. He remembered this feeling. Anticipation.

Cas's voice rose out of the darkness beside him, growling unfamiliar words. "Te wheriko, te tapu e…"

The air buzzed with electricity, and a figure appeared before them, translucent and blurred by the rain, shining in its own light. The chill intensified. Frost burned Dean's skin. He gripped the nozzle of his sprayer, ready if the spirit moved.

The spirit wore a cloak of feathers, and the spiral patterns of a moko decorated its face. It held a heavy club, made out of something that looked like it might have been stone. An expression of fury was on its face, half hidden by the wound that had caved the side of its head in.

The karakia flowed from Cas's mouth, but he couldn't finish it in time. The spirit disappeared and reappeared immediately in front of Sam, swinging his incorporeal club. Sam flew hard into a tree and Dean swung around, aiming his hose at the spirit and letting fly a stream of salt water that sent the spirit flickering out of existence. He allowed himself a quick smirk of satisfaction, before it was doused by a heavy spray of cold water across his back. He turned to see Cas a few metres away, frantically pumping the lever on his tank to rebuild the pressure. Cas never paused in his flow of words, but he held up two fingers. _Crap._

They fought through the undergrowth towards the tree. It didn't take long for the spirits to manifest once more, and this time they teamed up on Cas, trying to prevent him calling back the protection of the Gods. Dean took out the Chief in his feathered cloak with another spray of salt water, but not before he'd flung Cas to the ground. A second spirit, this one thinner and wearing only a reed skirt raised his club over Cas, but then Sam was there, flinging his chain around the ghost, wrapping it around a tree, and anchoring it heavily in the ground. The spirit flashed angrily and rattled the rusty chain, but couldn't escape.

They ran toward the tree, slipping and sliding in the mud. Dean gave Cas a hand up, and Cas continued his prayer smoothly from where he'd faltered as the spirit threw him to the ground. The spirit of the chief reappeared behind Dean, raising his club. Dean flung himself forward and found himself tumbling down the slope, dragged by the weight of the backpack.

He came to rest against the enormous tree they were there to bless, bruised and scratched from the rocks and seedlings he'd slid over on his journey downhill. The frigid air suddenly got much, much colder.

"Oh crap," he heard Sam say, over the drone of Cas repeating the prayer, his voice steady and sure. They'd somehow managed to reach the tree not long after him.

Dean lifted his head, struggling to right himself. The plastic of his salt water tank had cracked when he smashed into the tree, and water was leaking out onto the roots of the tree, soaking into the ground beneath. Okay, that was okay. Some of the articles had suggested splashing the object or person with water. Maybe it would help. Dean's breath came back, and the haze of white light that formed a circle around them resolved itself into figures. Spirits. Lots of them. Twenty at least, surrounding them on all sides. Dean twisted out of his backpack and grabbed the mercifully unbroken back of salt that had been attached to the base, ripping it open and starting to pour a thin line around them.

The spirits closed in. Cas sent a jet of water at one and it disappeared, only for the spot to be filled by another spirit.

Sam flung a water balloon filled with salt into the mass of spirits. It burst on a tree and sent the spirits around it scattering, but they could all see they couldn't hold them off for long.

The tree they were under began to move, its drooping leaves slashing hard and fast through the air. One whipped Dean across the face. It was sharp and spiky, and he knew he was going to have a cut along his cheekbone the next day. Assuming they made it to tomorrow.

A heavy branch creaked above Sam and Dean dived on him, shoving him out of the way just as the branch fell.

When he and Sam had clambered to their feet, Dean gave up on the salt line. He and Sam stood on either side of Cas, flinging out handfuls of salt as Cas shouted the final few words of the prayer.

Dean threw his last handful of salt and braced himself as the spirits sped up their descent. Cas let out a final shout and sprayed the last of his water directly onto the tree, while Sam threw his last salt.

And then… nothing. The spirits were there and then they weren't. The tree stopped moving. All that remained was the constant drip of the rain, now feeling positively warm on their freezing skin. A bright, yellow light appeared beside Sam. His flashlight, still turned on, dangled on a clip from his backpack. Sometimes, Dean's little brother was awesomely smart.

"So that's it?" Sam asked.

"Yes," said Cas, voice hoarse from all the shouting.

"I was kind of expecting it to be more dramatic than that."

"Well, I for one am glad it wasn't," Dean said, "We should go before we freeze to death."

But he had to admit he'd kind of missed the excitement. And next case, he was making sure they got to burn something.

XXXXXXXXXXX

_"It's easy to forget what you learned_

_ Waiting for the thrill to return_

_ Feeling your desire burn_

_ And drawn to the flame…"_

Crowded House – _Distant Sun_

Sam clapped his brother on the back as Dean stood up, muddy but triumphant, having just scored the team's first try of the game. He picked the ball up just as the rest of the team arrived for high fives and back patting. Okay, so maybe they were still fifteen points behind with less than three minutes to play, but winning wasn't the point. The point was to have fun. And the best bit for Sam was that Dean was smiling, and it wasn't that scary forced grin that made him look like a crazy person. Dean was coming back to him.

They were still a couple of players short; although the accidents had stopped after the night they'd been on their expedition into the bush. The day after, they had gone to visit Keith at his brother's place (he'd been released from the hospital that morning), and met a priest on his way out. As it turned out, they didn't have to perform the blessing on him, because someone else had taken the initiative. Lucky, really. Keith thought it was weird enough that they were visiting him at all, let alone praying over him in Maori and dousing him in salt water.

Sam had noticed a change in Dean after the hunt. He seemed more alive, and Sam knew that despite Dean's desire to escape the life and the pain that it caused, hunting was something that made him Dean, and he would always find his way back to it. They all would.

But from now on, it wouldn't be everything. It was time to find a balance, and that started with finishing their vacation without looking for more hunts. They'd stay for the rest of the winter and then head home before the hoards of summer tourists arrived. After that? Well, Sam wasn't making any plans until then.

Beside him, Dean showed Cas how to fist-bump.

The end.


End file.
